


i bet you're real real sweet with her

by amainiris



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beach, Betrayal, F/F, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:15:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25066024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amainiris/pseuds/amainiris
Summary: Until the last minute, she really hadn’t planned on sleeping with her future sister-in-law, or stealing her brother’s beat-up BMW and driving them up and down the wild coast, or hiding away in motel rooms to make love until the sun died in the sky. Though it was autumn then, to Margaery it felt like an endless, formless summer: the asters and celosias and even the late jasmine, heady and fragrant and full, the blooms flowering along the dusted little side roads.In which Margaery loses more than she bargained for.
Relationships: Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Comments: 18
Kudos: 81





	i bet you're real real sweet with her

Until the last minute, she really hadn’t planned on sleeping with her future sister-in-law, or stealing her brother’s beat-up BMW and driving them up and down the wild coast, or hiding away in motel rooms to make love until the sun died in the sky. Though it was autumn then, to Margaery it felt like an endless, formless summer: the asters and celosias and even the late jasmine, heady and fragrant and full, the blooms flowering along the dusted little side roads.

“You’re going to be marrying Robb Stark,” Loras had told her, with atypical dryness, “And you’re planning on seducing his _sister_?”

“Don’t act as if you’ve suddenly grown a conscience.” Margaery picked at her nails: the last nasty habit she allowed herself.

“She’s a sweet girl,” Loras said, pointedly. “And only nineteen.”

Margaery shrugged, tipped her sunglasses higher on her perfect nose. “Then I’ll have plenty to teach her.”

“It’s awful, Margaery.”

“What if I love her?”

There was a profound silence then, in the Tyrell gardens, hushed and fragrant and very still. And then, finally;

“But, Margaery. You don’t.”

Over oysters and white wine on the Portland coast, food and drink that Sansa was not yet old enough to fully appreciate, Margaery tipped her head towards the younger girl and smiled, chatted, put her at perfect ease. Sansa wore a summery dress that left her arms bare to the chill, and afterward, as they walked the docks and felt the salt air sting like knives, Margaery offered her shawl.

“Oh, no, I can’t,” Sansa demurred. “You’ll be so cold.”

“Then we’ll share it.”

Sansa blushed so prettily, Margaery thought. Almost like a much younger girl. They sat on the docks with bare feet, swinging their legs into the air so heady it tasted like wine; when Margaery tilted her head back, arched her beautiful throat and took a gulp, she was dizzy from the chlorophyll and something else entirely.

And Sansa just watched her quietly, big blue eyes as innocent as a child’s, though — as Margaery had of course noticed — there was nothing childish about the swell of her breasts underneath her cotton Anthropologie t-shirt, nor of the curve-in of her waist underneath the loose joggers she wore. Margaery had never been so entranced by such a modest girl, and perhaps she should have questioned why: why she wanted Sansa so desperately, why the thought of not having her at all she could only imagine as utter heartbreak.

Margaery, whose heart had never been broken in her entire life.

Sansa slipped her hand into Margaery’s, and squeezed, and at once Margaery felt a little dizzy.

“I’m so glad we’ll be sisters,” Sansa said softly.

“Me too, Sansa,” Margaery said, honestly. “Me, too.”

“You only want her,” Loras had said patiently, “Because you know you can’t.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Margaery first kissed her on a western beach, three days before the wedding. The white sand covered their bare legs, and when they waded into the water little minnows darted around the hollows of their thin ankles. They were drinking from a bottle of Pinot Noir, one of the finest bottles Margaery had brought with her, kicking up the waves and smiling and laughing and talking of everything but Robb Stark.

Sansa loved her brother very much, she knew. But Margaery loved hers, too — so what?

The moon was white and wild that night, the sort of luminescence that gave more to the dark than to the light. Sansa was just a slim shadow at the edge of the water, observing the waves breaking over her bare feet, the half-emptied bottle of wine in her hand. “Margaery,” she said suddenly, “Come here.”

Margaery went, and stood not-too-close, just near enough that their fingertips brushed.

“It sounds like a heart breaking,” Sansa said softly, her eyes very blue and very wide. “The waves, I mean.”

Margaery smiled, and took her hand. “How do you know what a heart breaking sounds like, Sansa?”

Sansa flushed. “I—I don’t know. I’ve never been in love. But I’d like to be, I really would like to try and—”

Margaery squeezed her hand softly, leaned in, and kissed her.

It was a soft kiss, the kind of kiss that only existed between two girls. Somehow Margaery knew that Sansa knew this, too. She saw Sansa’s eyes flutter closed, haphazard, moth wings, the gossamer sensation of her lashes on Margaery’s cheeks. Then Sansa’s tongue was in her mouth, Margaery’s hand was cupping a breast, running a thumb across a hardened nipple, and around them the night was so still that every inhalation, every little gasp, sounded like a thunderclap to her ears.

At last Sansa drew away, eyes hazy and only half-there. Margaery drew her thumb softly over the pad of her lips.

“We can’t,” Sansa said softly, eyes half-shut and hair whipping round her pale throat like a noose. “We can’t, Margaery.”

“What if this is what I want?”

“It’s too late for that,” Sansa said, with a maturity beyond her years. “And you know that.”

“All I know is that I want to be with you.” That part wasn’t a lie. That part was true. “Don’t you want to be with me?”

The other girl actually shuddered. “Yes. But life isn’t about getting what you want.”

Margaery’s brow furrowed. “Then what is it about?”

Sansa looked at her almost stubbornly. “Loving what you have.”

One of their last nights on the coast, it stormed. It was the sort of weather that could only occur in the west, Margaery was sure. Sansa stood at the too-bright window of their motel room, observed how the rain came in great metal sheets, like a sudden fierce exhale from the sky. Margaery curled up in her bed, a book unforgotten in her hands. The TV was busted and played only static; the coffee was black and tarred her throat and came with two packets of chemical cream. Margaery wouldn’t have dared a place like this for anyone but Sansa.

It was two A.M., and Sansa turned to her, looking tired. “It’s so cold.”

“It’s the motel,” said Margaery with a sigh, flipping a luxurious honey-brown curl over her shoulder. “It’s not heated properly.” She paused. “You can sleep with me, if you’d like.”

Shyly, warily, Sansa slipped fully clothed into bed with Margaery. Her hand hovered by the cheap light, but she didn’t move to turn it off. Instead she turned back towards the other girl.

“Margaery,” she said, softly, “Why do you love my brother?”

Margaery felt something squeeze in her heart. “I… I don’t know.”

A puzzled expression crossed Sansa’s pretty features. “You don’t know?”

“He’s kind,” Margaery said, drawing a little closer. Sansa didn’t pull away. “He’s brave. He’s intelligent. He’s sweet, and he cares for people who can’t help him. He’s a strong leader, and he’s curious about the world. He likes to learn, and to travel, and to read.” Now their faces were very close, hovering as a dream does, just out of reach. “He’s gentle, and…” She paused. “I love how much he loves stories.” The brush of their mouths was inevitable, then, and so was everything that came after.

“So no, I don’t love him,” Margaery said softly. “But I might be able to love you. I might.”

Tears filled Sansa’s eyes, sweet and pure as the rainwater outside.

Margaery dipped her head and kissed her again, very soft. This time Sansa was even more responsive than she’d been on the beach, untensing immediately, uncurling her body so that she could press it against Margaery’s. For long moments they lost themself to cold-mouthed kisses, numb from the chill, and then when Margaery began to slip out of her dress Sansa did the same, as if she’d done it a thousand times before in some other girl’s bed. But Margaery knew she hadn’t.

Margaery kissed Sansa’s right eyelid, then the left. And then they were both naked, their skin so freezing against the other’s, even as a terrible heat stirred inside of Margaery’s belly. She lowered her head to Sansa’s small breasts, circling a nipple with her tongue as her right hand crept between Sansa’s legs and found her already very, very wet. She smiled.

“God, you are beautiful,” she murmured.

“So are you,” Sansa said, and her voice was serious. “Can we do this, Margaery?”

“We already are.”

Margaery fucked her gently, two fingers inside of her cunt and her mouth at Sansa’s heated center, until Sansa cries grew unrestrained and she wound her hands in Margaery’s thick dark hair. Margaery looked her in the eye the entire time, and when Sansa came, shuddering, to her climax, she let out the most beautiful cry Margaery had ever heard.

Afterwards they lay curled in the poorly-threaded sheets, still listening to the rain, worlds away from anything at all. Margaery wondered what Loras would say. She didn’t want to think about that: didn’t want to think about anything.

“What if…” Sansa spoke suddenly, softly, and Margaery turned onto her side to look at her.

“What, Sansa?”

“What if I’m falling in love with you?”

Something felt as if it was collapsing in Margaery’s chest. She reached over to kiss Sansa gently, with closed lips, and drew back slowly.“Then I am so, so sorry."


End file.
